


The Old Familiar Places

by mardia



Series: Reichenbach Falls [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Funerals, Gen, Grief, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: On the day of Peter Grant’s funeral, Sahra wakes up with a knot in a stomach and the beginnings of a dull headache at her temples. For a moment, she doesn’t remember why she feels so terrible, and then she remembers and the wave of sadness hits all over again.





	The Old Familiar Places

**Author's Note:**

> ...I am very sorry. 
> 
> Title comes from a Billie Holliday song, huge thanks to jamjarring for her betaing.

On the day of Peter Grant’s funeral, Sahra wakes up with a knot in a stomach and the beginnings of a dull headache at her temples. For a moment, she doesn’t remember why she feels so terrible, and then she remembers and the wave of sadness hits all over again. 

Sahra feels the tears threatening, and she forces herself to breathe in and out, each breath slow and deep, blinking rapidly until the tears recede. 

As Sahra sits up in bed, she checks her phone and a text from her sister Hodan shows up on the screen, sent last night. _hey love, just wanted to check in. <33333_

Sahra slowly taps out a reply. _I’m okay. You free tonight? Could use the company._

Despite the fact that it’s not even 7am yet, and despite the fact that it’s the weekend and Hodan has never been much of a morning person, she replies in less than a minute. _Absolutely._

*

Sahra's police uniform fits her perfectly, but she's still pulling fretfully at the sleeves when she gets the text from Jaget that he and his wife Priya are waiting outside in the car. By the time she makes it downstairs and outside, Jaget’s hovering at the side of the car, parked only somewhat illegally outside of Sahra’s flat. 

Given that he’s wearing full uniform just the way that Sahra is, she’s not worried about them getting a ticket. 

Jaget gives her a faint half-smile of greeting, but it slides off his face quickly as she approaches. “You ready?” he asks her.

Sahra nods, swallowing as she says briefly, “Yeah, let’s go.”

Priya’s behind the wheel today, wearing a simple dark dress. She gives Sahra a sympathetic look but, thank God, doesn’t try to talk or distract them during the drive to the church. Jaget doesn’t say much either, and Sahra sits in the backseat, resting her head against the seat and trying not to think of...well, of anything at all. 

“You ever been to a Christian funeral before?” Jaget asks, abruptly. 

“No,” Sahra says, startled. “Have you?”

“Once, for one of Priya’s coworkers at the firm,” Jaget says, thoughtfully. “But he was Catholic, though, wasn’t he, babe?”

“Yeah, he was,” Priya confirms, taking a turn as they talk. “So I don’t think it’ll exactly be the same thing.”

“His family’s Pentecostal,” Sahra offers. She’s not sure what that means, in terms of funeral practices, but she can imagine what Peter would’ve said at the comparison, the easy grin he would’ve offered, amused and still friendly, before sliding into another funny story about his mum and all the churches she’d join and drop when he was a kid. 

“Hmm,” Jaget says, but it’s clear he knows about as much about Pentecostal funerals as Sahra does, which is to say, not much. “I suppose it can’t be that different, really. Aside from the viewing, obviously there won’t be--”

He stops talking, and Sahra carefully breathes out into the sudden silence that’s taken over the inside of the car. 

“Fuck,” Jaget mutters, shaking his head. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right,” Sahra tries, but Jaget just keeps shaking his head, at least until Priya lays a comforting hand on his arm, taking advantage of the red light to do it. 

“It’s all right, babe,” she murmurs, soothing. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Jaget says after a brief moment. “Yeah, I know.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive up to the church, and Sahra, though she tries not to be, is relieved. 

*

It takes them an eternity to find parking anywhere near the church, and as they start walking up the steps it becomes clear why; there are dozens and dozens of people there already, not just fellow officers or Peter’s relatives and friends--Sarah recognizes the manager from the Chestnut Tree, Zach Palmer, dozens of other faces she vaguely recognizes from cases she’d assisted Peter with, or vice versa, and more she doesn’t recognize at all, but can sense that there’s something different about them, whether they’re fae or secretly rivers or just… _different_.

“Wow,” Priya murmurs, and sure enough when they go into the church, it’s packed full, officers in full uniform mixing with other mourners, some of which are dressed in white, to Sahra’s surprise. Sahra catches sight of Seawoll and Stephanopoulos, mostly thanks to Seawoll’s height and bulk, and starts making her way through the crowd towards them, Jaget and Priya following. 

“This is one hell of a crowd,” Priya says softly. “It’s nice to see.”

It _is_ , and still Sahra’s stomach is churning. “They’re here because they all heard him,” she finds herself saying. “They heard him scream when the warehouse collapsed.”

Priya looks at her, a little uneasily, and Jaget’s biting at his lip, his gaze shadowed. 

Sahra knows why, of course--it’s because he heard Peter scream, just like everyone else in this city with even an inkling of magic or _vestigia_ or whatever the wizards call it.

Three weeks ago, Peter had gone into an abandoned warehouse in Greenwich in hot pursuit of Martin Chorley, leaving Sahra behind to secure the area and coordinate for backup, which had meant calling Nightingale in, but Nightingale has been clear across town attempting to interview a severely injured Lesley May, who was under arrest and under heavy guard at Hammersmith Hospital with a stab wound to her gut. 

So Sahra had done her job and called for backup, and waited outside, and as a result, she’d had a front row seat to when everything went to hell. 

“Sahra?” Seawoll’s voice cuts into her thoughts and Sahra blinks, looking up at him. 

“Sorry, sir, just--just woolgathering,” she says, and Seawoll just nods sympathetically. He looks around and says, “Quite the turnout. Are they all, uh--” He wriggles his fingers in what’s become the accepted signal for “magic” at the Met, and Sahra looks around her. 

“Not everyone,” she says finally. “But a healthy percentage, yes.”

Seawoll hums, but not in disapproval, for once. Then he looks behind her and his expression darkens. “Christ, that’s some nerve.” Sahra looks behind her, and sees Deputy Commissioner Folsom walking in, with several other high-ranking officers in the Met, looking both self-important and deeply uncomfortable. 

“I didn’t think he’d be coming,” Sahra says, as diplomatically as she can manage, and Seawoll snorts. 

“Neither did I, but I shouldn’t have underestimated the bare-faced cheek of--” Seawoll cuts himself off, and sighs. “But that’s for another day.”

Sahra bites at her lip. “Have you seen Inspector Nightingale yet?”

Seawoll nodded towards the front row of pews, and Sahra sees the back of Nightingale’s head, next to a black woman dressed in white, with dark shoulder-length hair that curls gently at the ends. “He’s up there with Grant’s mother,” Seawoll explains. “Poor bastard.”

Sahra shivers a little, and is grateful when Seawoll gestures to her to take a seat next to him, Jaget and Priya on her other side. She looks towards the front of the church and flinches at the large photograph of Peter, wearing his police helmet and smiling for the camera.

There’s no coffin, just like Jaget had predicted. You’d need a body to have a coffin at a funeral. 

Sahra breathes out and looks down at her hands, folded in her lap, and waits for the service to begin. 

The service itself seems very nice--the bishop leads everyone in a brief prayer, during which Sahra keeps her head down in a respectful manner, and through several hymns. Jaget and Sahra don’t sing those, obviously, but Seawoll does, with a surprisingly tuneful voice. 

Sahra manages to keep her composure through all of it, but it’s when the bishop begins to _talk_ about Peter, his dedication to the force, his love for his family, that’s when Sahra’s eyes start to sting, and she stares down at her twisting hands through a blur of tears.

_“Nightingale’s on his way, but someone’s got to go in, Sahra, and it’s got to be me.”_

_“Yes, and I should go in there with you--”_

_“You can’t. Look, it’ll be all right, Chorley loves a good monologue, so that’ll buy us some time, and I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. It’ll be all right, Sahra, I’ve got this.”_

As last words went, it had proven prophetic-- Peter did have it in hand, enough to save the day, to stop Chorley from his grand plan of causing riots all through London and bringing millions to rise up as his little unthinking right-wing puppets. But somewhere in that chaos, Mr. Punch’s laughter ringing through Sahra’s ears as she’d desperately tried to coordinate between the Met, MI-5, and a frantic Nightingale driving towards Greenwich as quickly as he could, the warehouse had come tumbling down, and there had been that awful scream, terror and pain and the echo of blood in Sahra’s mouth, so strong she’d nearly gagged on it--

And left in the rubble was Martin Chorley’s headless body, but no Peter to be found anywhere, not alive or dead. There was nothing but the echo of him screaming for help in Sahra’s ears, in everyone’s ears, everyone who was even a little bit aware of magic in the city of London--the entire demi-monde had heard it, from Zach Palmer and his friends in the goblin market to Beverley Brook rising up from her river while pipes flooded throughout the city, to Inspector Nightingale, still trapped in a traffic jam over a mile away, to Abigail Kamara screaming at her desk in school. 

And Sahra, who had been right there on the scene and had been, in the end, helpless to do anything but watch and bear witness. 

“Now, I did not know Peter Grant personally,” the bishop says, and Sahra hastily wipes at her face, swiping away the tears under her eyes. “And I’m sorry for it, because he was clearly a remarkable young man. But to all of you here mourning his death with us today, take comfort in his courage and in his faith--because I can tell you right now, it was faith that kept him going. His faith in God, in his calling. Peter was a man who had faith that he was working towards a better and a brighter future, and that his efforts would not be in vain. And that is a lesson we can all use today, I think.”

Sahra listens, still wiping away at her face when the tears fall, but it’s only when the bishop says, “And, at the request of Peter’s family, we have his close friend and colleague Thomas Nightingale here to say a few words,” that she inhales softly, going stiff in her seat. 

She’s not even sure _why_ \--it’s not as if Nightingale was ever cruel, it’s not as though he’d ever said a word of blame to her. And still Sahra finds herself holding her breath as Nightingale slowly gets to his feet, straightening his suit jacket before making his way up to the pulpit, where he solemnly shakes the bishop’s hand and takes the microphone. 

Later, Sahra will remember it as a beautiful eulogy, well delivered, full of affection and grief mingled together. But when she thinks of it later on, she doesn’t first think of Nightingale’s smooth voice washing over the church--she thinks of the unsteady breath he took at the beginning, how for just a moment up there at the pulpit, he looked utterly lost, staring out into the crowd as if he couldn’t understand how they’d all got there.

*

After the service comes to an end, it’s time to pay respects to the family. “You ready?” Jaget asks in a low tone as they make their way through the crowded room, and Sahra nods. 

People are mostly clustered in little groups, the largest group of all centered around Peter’s exhausted-looking mother, and Sahra’s stomach churns at the sight of her, at how alone she looks even though Nightingale is hovering nearby, even though she’s got plenty of relatives around--

But not Peter’s dad, Sahra remembers. Peter’s dad, who had died just the year before, leaving Mrs. Grant a widow, only to lose her only child--

Sahra shivers, and looks away, accidentally catching the eye of Caroline Linden-Limmer, who’s looking her way. Sahra hastily turns her head in the other direction, ignoring Jaget’s curious look.

But, like clockwork, Sahra's gaze then falls on Beverley Brook, who's standing a little to the side near a wall, and it's almost funny the way there's a gap around her, as if nobody wants to get too close. Beverley's gaze is distant, removed, and Sahra takes a long breath before moving to approach her. 

"Hey, Bev," Sahra says softly as she reaches Beverley's side. 

Beverley looks like a statue--a lovely statue, dressed in white, her locs flowing down her back and over her shoulder, and it takes a second for Beverley to come to attention, her gaze coming to rest on Sahra's face. 

The minute Sahra meets Beverley's dark eyes, she has to fight back the sudden, immediate urge to take a step back as the sensation of dark rushing water hits her, like the river rising during a flood. It's a shock to her system, honestly. Beverley has always seemed, not _harmless_ exactly, but benign, benevolent even--a bit different sure, and her family was something else, but not something intrinsically dangerous, not someone to be wary of. 

It's only now that Sahra realizes that that show of harmlessness was, if not a front, then not nearly the whole story either. Because this, _this_ is what Beverley Brook looks like when she doesn't care about putting someone at ease, all that power, all that danger rising to the surface--

She doesn't care because the man she loves is dead, Sahra forcibly reminds herself, and repeats again, softer this time, "Bev?"

Beverley takes a moment to respond, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Beverley's sister, Effra, approaching, looking worried. "Hello, Sahra," Beverley says, her voice flat. 

Off to the side, Sahra hears Jaget and Priya making quiet conversation with Effra--talking about the service, the size of the crowd, how nice it is to see people appreciating Peter's work now that he's gone. 

Beverley must hear them as well, as she looks away, mouth tightening in either grief or anger. "Bev," Sahra says, her throat tightening, but what can she say? Sorry I was completely useless on the day your boyfriend died? "Listen," she tries next, "--if there's anything I can do..."

Beverley comes to attention at that, her dark eyes growing sharper, more alert. "If there's anything you can do to help?" she asks, voice lifting just a fraction at the end. 

And Sahra's not an idiot, she remembers Peter saying what promises meant in this world, what your word means when magic's involved, and she knows--whatever promises she makes here in this moment to Beverley, she'll have to keep. 

She knows it, and she plunges in anyway. 

"Yeah," Sahra agrees, feeling the skin prickle on the back of her neck. "If I can help, with--with Peter, or if you get in trouble or, just...need something, I’ll try to help. Okay?"

Beverley's face--it doesn't go softer in that moment, it doesn't crumble or break into a relieved smile. But for that moment, it's like--like she's seeing Sahra there properly, like she's actually present in the moment, instead of being caught alone in a spiral of grief and memories. "All right," she says quietly. "Thank you. For coming today."

Sahra exhales, feeling a relief of tension, as if something's been settled without her quite realizing. Except she did realize, and went through with it anyway. "Okay. Take care of yourself."

Beverley doesn't acknowledge that, and so Sahra has to walk off, glancing back at a wide-eyed Jaget, who's slowly walking towards Beverley like he has no idea what he's in for yet, but he’s dreading it anyway.

Sahra takes a deep breath and, instead of approaching one of the many police officers here--she’s already spotted Dominic Croft from Herefordshire, who she mostly knows through Peter’s stories and through his Facebook posts--she takes the plunge, and goes to pay her respects to Peter’s mother.

It takes a moment before she’s face to face with Mrs. Grant; Seawoll is in front of her now, shaking her hand and offering his condolences in a gentle voice, while relatives surround her like sentries. But at last he moves on, and Sahra steps forward, and Mrs. Grant is looking at her wearily. 

Sahra had met Mrs. Grant for the first time at that open house Peter had organized a few years back, at that old wizarding school Sahra had always thought of as Hogwarts, no matter how often Peter had repeated the actual name--and she remembers liking her, and being deeply amused at how within two seconds of being around his parents, Peter immediately seemed to revert to being an embarrassed teenager. 

She’d noticed the family resemblance then, of course, but it hits her entirely differently now--the wide eyes and dimpled cheek, that same straightforward gaze--except Mrs. Grant’s gaze is muted now, all the life and energy Sahra remembers from that warm fall day gone, leaving behind this quiet, dead-eyed woman who looks at Sahra silently, mouth pressed tightly together. 

Sahra reaches a hand out, her throat so tight that for a moment, she’s honestly afraid she won’t be able to get the words out. “Mrs. Grant, I’m--I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Grant looks at her, blinking, before recognition washes over her face. “You’re Sahra Guleed.”

Sahra tenses up, except it’s all right, Mrs. Grant is actually smiling at her, faint and hesitant but still real. “Mrs. Grant, I just wanted to say…” But her voice falters in the moment, and Sahra bites the inside of her cheek in a futile attempt to hold back the tears. 

Mrs. Grant doesn’t mind, though, telling Sahra, “He liked you, you know.” Sahra looks up at this, and Mrs. Grant just gives her a smile that only trembles a little bit at the edges. “I was glad when he first mentioned working with you--glad there was someone else like him that he was working with.” Her smile falters, and she admits faintly, the tears filling her eyes, “I worried about him, you see.”

Sahra takes a deep breath, thinking of the worried calls she’ll get from her mum on late nights when she’s heard of an incident on the news, never mind if Sahra’s miles away at the time. “I know. Mrs. Grant, I’m so...I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. About Peter, I’m sorry that I couldn’t--”

Mrs. Grant nods and squeezes her hand, closing her eyes. “I know,” she says, but Sahra can feel her retreating, pulling back a little. “I know. Everyone’s sorry.” She looks down at that, before taking a breath and looking Sahra square in the face. “Thank you, Sahra, for coming today, I’m glad to see you here.” She looks around the room. “To see all of you here.”

“It’s the least we can do,” Sahra says, feeling small and inadequate. “If there’s anything you need--”

“I’ve got plenty of people to call on,” Mrs. Grant says to her, quiet but firm. She hesitates for a moment, then squeezes her hand once more. “Take care of yourself, eh?”

Sahra nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

One of Mrs. Grant’s relatives leans in to whisper a quiet word to her, and Sahra takes her leave, exhaling slowly as she does. There’s a crowd of coppers in the corner, Jaget and Dominic Croft among them, and Sahra is about to go over when she hears a familiar voice hissing out, “Will you just _leave off_ already!”

Sahra turns her head, and sees Abigail Kamara twisting away from a middle-aged white woman with fine blond hair falling about her face, wearing the same pained expression as the middle-aged black man next to her. “Abby,” the woman says, darting an embarrassed look at the people around them, most of whom are pretending not to notice. “Abby, love--”

“Just leave off,” Abigail repeats, her voice wobbling. “God, I don’t even know why you’re here, it’s not as if you ever bothered to get to know Peter at all--”

“Abigail, that’s enough,” the man that has to be Abigail’s father says in a low voice, and Sahra catches a glimpse of Abigail’s flushed face and the way her eyes are shining in the light, and moves forward on impulse. 

“Hey, Abigail,” she says as she reaches them, pitching her voice to be as calm and friendly and non-threatening as possible. It works, at least enough for Abigail to turn to her, startled, her red-rimmed eyes and balled-up fists a dead giveaway even if Sahra just hadn’t witnessed the argument that was about to boil over. “Listen, I was going to get some air, mind if I borrow you for some company?”

Abigail’s eyes narrow, because she’s obviously going to pick up on what Sahra’s trying to do, and that’s fine, Sahra’s still betting she’s desperate enough to get away from her parents that she’ll take the out.

“Fine,” Abigail says at last, and Sahra doesn’t exhale in relief, but she nods in a friendly way to Abigail’s parents, who are openly relieved, and leads Abigail out of the room. The two of them carefully pick their way through the crowd until they reach the coat room, where Abigail grabs her spring jacket and then slips out through the door, Sahra following. 

Abigail doesn’t look at her right away, focused on getting the zipper of her jacket up over her white dress; it takes her two tries and once she’s properly zipped out, she glares out at the crowded parking lot rather than look at Sahra. 

“Thanks for coming with me,” Sahra says. “I needed the breather.”

Abigail snorts. “Sure you did,” she mumbles, but she’s not spitting the words out with barely-restrained fury, so Sahra will take it as a win. 

Instead she shrugs and says, “Just finished paying my respects to Peter’s mum.” Abigail goes still at that, and Sahra says next, with a little effort, “I’d forgotten how much she looks like him, it caught me off guard.”

“Yeah,” Abigail says softly. She’s staring down at her feet, and adds next in a tight voice, “All of the aunties have basically moved into her flat to look after her, there’s hardly any room to move whenever I stop by, let alone get a minute to...to talk to her, or whatever.” Abigail chews at her bottom lip before saying next, “You can’t say much anyway, mostly she’s shut up in her room. Doesn’t feel right to poke my head in.”

She shrugs, glowering in an abstract way at a nearby Kia, and Sahra asks quietly, “Have you had a chance to talk to Bev?”

Abigail lifts one shoulder. “She’s mostly been at Mama Thames’ place in Wapping,” she says. “I stopped by a couple of times, but--you’ve seen her.”

“Yeah,” Sahra agrees, and they stand together in silence for a while. It’s a cloudy day, but so far no rain to be seen. 

“You know what’s really fucked up?” Abigail says at last, and now her voice is starting to wobble. “I still find myself looking forward to Sundays, you know?”

Sahra takes a breath, blinking rapidly. God, she’s not going to start falling apart now, she won’t. No matter how young and heartbreaking Abigail is in this moment, her voice thick from tears. “Sundays were when you hung out with Peter, yeah?”

Abigail nods slowly, still staring down at her shoes. “Even if...even if he wasn’t free right away, because of work, I could still stop by the Folly and Nightingale would help with my Latin, or I could hang out with Molly until one of them was free, and they always--” She sniffs, and finishes in a choked voice, “Peter was really good about making the time for me, never acted like it was a chore….”

It’s awful, watching Abigail slowly crumble under her grief. Sahra inches closer until her arm is just brushing Abigail’s through her thin jacket, and Abigail doesn’t flinch away. “Abigail…”

“And I never thanked him for it,” Abigail continues, and the tears are falling down her face in earnest now. “Not properly, I never said--I just wanted to learn magic so badly, and he always worried over it but he still _helped_ , and now he’s dead and I can’t--” She breaks down at that last part, and Sahra doesn’t hesitate before wrapping an arm around Abigail’s thin shoulders, making soothing noises while Abigail covers her face and cries in earnest. 

It takes a while before the sobs begin to ease, and longer before Abigail starts wiping at her face, mumbling a soft, “Sorry,” from behind her hand. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sahra says, clearing her throat. “It’s been a shitty few weeks.”

“The fucking worst,” Abigail agrees, still sniffing. “And my parents are just--” She cuts herself off, mouth twisting, before she explains stiffly, “Nightingale stopped by the flat, a few days ago. To check in, you know. And he...he said that if I still wanted to keep learning magic, if I still wanted to be part of the Folly, I could.”

Sahra can’t quite stop her eyebrows from coming together at that. Abigail catches sight of it and says, defensive and fierce, her eyelashes spiky from the tears, “It’s not like that, he gave me an out. Nightingale said if I didn’t want to learn anymore, that it was okay, he would understand. But...he said I had a right to know that I was still welcome, and that I always would be so long as he ran the Folly.”

“That was decent of him,” Sahra says, and Abigail snorts. 

“I learned Latin,” she says, and fair enough there, but she admits next, “But yeah, it was. Not that my parents saw it that way.”

The bitterness there is obvious, and Sahra says carefully, “Can’t blame them for being worried.”

“I don’t blame my _dad_ for being worried,” Abigail says, each word precise. “But my mum’s never cared, she’s never shown an interest in any of it before, and now she’s bleating on and on about how it’s not safe, how I should just go to uni and leave well enough alone and, and leave it behind--”

She cuts herself off, and they stand together in silence for a moment. 

“You know you don’t have to make any decisions right away,” Sahra tries, and Abigail gives her a skeptical look. 

“Right, because we’ve got so much time to get things sorted,” she says. “Nightingale is the last wizard of the Folly again, Caroline’s mostly all right, but her mother isn’t trustworthy, and Varvara’s still in prison.” She shoots Sahra another look and adds, “And it’s not like any police officers are lining up to join the Folly, are they?”

Sahra can’t answer, she looks down at her hands and hears the faint echo of Peter’s voice saying months ago, _“It’s like learning piano, anyone can do it if they’ve got the training.”_ That faint pause before he’d added, tentatively, _“You could do it, if you wanted to learn."_

Sahra had cut that off as quickly as possible, and Peter had never brought it up again, because he was tactful that way.

And then he’d walked into that warehouse in Greenwich and that was it. 

“Sahra?” Abigail says, cutting into her thoughts, and Sahra blinks and comes back to herself. 

Abigail looks worried, and says in a smaller voice, “I wasn’t trying to be a brat or anything, it’s just--well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sahra says, and hopes Abigail can’t hear the catch in her voice. “Yeah, it’s true.”

*

Stephanopoulos comes outside about ten minutes later, holding a plate in her hand that’s piled high with jollof rice and a slice of Battenburg cake. “Quite a spread in there,” she says, joining Sahra by the doorway. “Everything’s marked, if you’re worried about that.”

Sahra shakes her head. “Molly made most of it and she’s always been good about labeling things. I’m just not hungry.”

“Fair enough,” Stephanopoulos agrees, and takes a forkful of rice. “I saw Peter’s cousin coming back in, she looks better now.”

Abigail had been collected by one of her cousins five minutes earlier, but Sahra had said she would stay out a bit longer. “Yeah, she just needed to vent a little,” Sahra says with a shrug. “She’s taken it hard, obviously.”

“She’s not the only one,” Stephanopoulos says, looking over at Sahra, and Sahra glances away. “Been talking to Caroline Linden-Limmer just now,” Stephanopoulos says, and Sahra tries not to stiffen at that, but from the sharp look Stephanopoulos gives him, she fails completely. “She was very helpful just now, explained about that...that scream everyone here seems so rattled over.”

Sahra looks at her hands. She doesn’t have to wait long for the rest. 

“Sahra,” Stephanopoulos says, her voice gentle. “You should know, whether it’s...magic-related or not, if there’s something you feel you need to talk about, with anyone, you should.”

Sahra breathes in and out, but it’s no use, the words are rising up to the surface despite herself. 

“It’s not him screaming that bothers me,” she tries, shaking her head before correcting herself. “No, I mean, that was awful, and I’ll be hearing it in my head for _ages_ , but that isn’t…”

Stephanopoulos just watches her with patient eyes, and Sahra feels her eyes fill up with tears again, God, how is this possible, she should be all cried out by now. 

“I was right there,” she explains, her voice cracking a little, “And I wasn’t any sort of proper support for him at all. Peter walked into that warehouse, up against a fucking terrorist, and he died alone and afraid because there was nobody to back him, Nightingale was miles away, and that was _it_.”

Sahra’s skin crawls at the memory, talking into her Airwave as magic washed over her in sudden surges, the sharp, clean feeling she’d learned to associate with Peter’s spells interspersed with the creaking of old rope and a sort of oil-slick sensation that had to be Chorley, every instinct in Sahra telling her to back up, to get away--

And then the scream, and the building crumbling down, and then nothing at all. 

“He was a good police officer,” Sahra says, each word falling from her mouth like a weight, “--and when he needed backup the most, there wasn’t any to be found.”

Stephanopoulos doesn’t speak for a moment, then she rests a hand on Sahra’s shoulder and says, “Any failings in that area--and there were many, God knows--they aren’t your fault, or your burden to carry.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sahra says. “But with all due respect, boss, it’s still fucking shit.”

Stephanopoulos doesn’t flinch at the profanity, just looks at Sahra with weary understanding. “Yes, it is.”

*

When Sahra eventually makes her way back inside, she discovers Jaget and Priya in a corner, plates in hand, chatting quietly with Dominic Croft and a man Sahra recognizes from Facebook as his husband, although the name escapes her at the moment. 

She goes to join them, and Dominic gives her a smile as he shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you in person at last. Wish it was under better circumstances, obviously,” he adds, glancing around with a wince. 

“Yeah, likewise,” Sahra says.

“Sahra, Dominic and I were talking,” Jaget says, “--and since a bunch of us officers are heading out to the Burlington Arms after this, we thought we might go there as well. You in?”

Truthfully, Sahra wants to go home--to collapse onto her sofa in her pajamas and put on something mindless on the telly--but Dominic and Jaget are both looking at her hopefully, and what the hell. 

She’s done harder things for Peter Grant than go to a pub and watch her fellow officers get drunk, after all. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sahra says, with a shrug and a small smile. “I’m in.” On instinct, she looks around her for a glimpse of Nightingale, but can’t spot him in the still-thick crowd. “Anyone invited Inspector Nightingale? Might be a nice idea, friendly gesture and all.” Something about the idea of all of them raising a glass to Peter Grant’s memory only to leave his governor rattling around that empty mansion--it doesn’t feel right. 

Jaget, to her relief, already nods. “Spoke to Inspector Stephanopoulos earlier, she said she was already on it.”

“Good,” Sahra says. “That’s good.”

She sends Hodan a text not five minutes later, explaining that she’s been invited out for drinks with the other officers and doesn’t feel like she can refuse. 

Hodan’s reply lights up the screen of her phone a few minutes later, when Sahra is chatting politely with some of Peter’s cousins and old classmates. _That’s okay, love. Want me to come along, keep you company?_

Sahra is about to reply politely that she doesn’t have to, but, her throat tightening suddenly, she finds herself tapping out a rapid reply. _You don’t have to, but if you’re up for it, then yeah. Please._

Hodan’s reply is immediate. _Okay, I’m in._ There’s a string of heart emojis at the end, and Sahra carefully taps out, _thank you <33333333 _ in reply.

*

Unsurprisingly given the turnout at the funeral itself, the Burlington Arms is simply packed that night. Sahra finds herself crammed into a booth with Jaget, Dominic, and their respective spouses, everyone listening as Dominic, with two pints bringing a flush to his fair cheeks, regales them all with a story of the dangers of rampaging unicorns in the countryside. 

“So the unicorns were real?” Priya says, disbelieving. “I was convinced Jaget was exaggerating about that one.”

“Nope,” Dominic says with relish. “They’re real, and they’re fucking horrifying. Imagine a really angry horse with a giant fucking knife on their head in the command of an evil fucking fairy queen-- _that’s_ the unicorns we’ve got up around Herefordshire. Awful.” He pauses to drink from his third pint, and adds, “Peter scared one of them off with his wizard staff, actually, it was pretty cool.”

“I’ll never understand how he was so nonchalant about everything,” Jaget says, shaking his head as he lifts his own pint. 

“He wasn’t always nonchalant,” Sahra says, remembering. “He was just...open-minded.”

“Fair enough,” Jaget says, smiling a little.

As Dominic asks if everyone wants another round, Sahra happens to glance over and sees, of all people, Caroline Linden-Limmer deep in conversation with Dr. Vaughan. Sahra kisses her teeth in irritation and Priya looks at her. 

“What’s wrong, who’s that woman?”

“Caroline Linden-Limmer,” Sahra says, as everyone turns to look at where Sahra is looking. “She’s another wizard.”

Priya’s eyes go a little wide in her face and she asks, “How many wizards are running around London anyway?”

“Not enough of them,” Jaget grumbles, finishing his pint. 

“Not enough of the trustworthy ones, anyway,” Sahra adds, and Jaget and Dominic give her looks at that. 

“You don’t like her,” Jaget says. 

“I don’t like her mother,” Sahra says sharply. “First time I met Lady Helena, I was subjected to a fifteen-minute grilling on my religion, my attire, and how they did or did not impact on my profession.” Jaget and Priya makes noises of disgust, and Sahra says, “ _Exactly_. I’ll admit Caroline’s not that bad, but she--”

Sahra cuts herself off, remembering that awful day in Greenwich, how Caroline had turned up in her car along with all the other onlookers, took one look at Sahra’s shell-shocked face and dust-covered clothes, and asked, “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”

Sahra, still dazed at that point, and being fussed over the paramedics, found herself mumbling, “I heard him scream.”

Caroline’s entire expression grew sharper at that. “You heard him scream?”

And not two days later, Caroline had made the offer--a chance for Sahra to learn magic with her and Lady Helena. “Take your time and think it over,” Caroline had urged. “It’ll be months before Nightingale’s allowed to take another apprentice, if ever, and you have more potential than you realize.”

Sahra had just stared at her. “Peter’s still missing, we don’t know that he’s--we don’t know anything yet.”

Caroline’s expression had turned sympathetic, and not a little pitying. “Sahra. You heard that scream. You know he’s gone.”

“No, thank you,” Sahra had said, as steadily as she could manage, and walked out of the cafe without another word. 

“Sahra?” Jaget prods now, gently, and Sahra comes back to herself, giving everyone a tight smile. 

“Let’s just say I don’t trust her any more than Peter did, and leave it at that.”

Jaget gives her a knowing look, but thankfully leaves it alone after that, as does Dominic. 

Sahra feels her phone buzzing in her hand a few minutes later, glances down and sees Hodan’s latest text, _I’m here!!!_

And sure enough, Sahra catches sight of her sister squeezing her way through the crowd, and then Hodan is at their booth, beaming down at all of them, the light catching the silver threads in her hijab. “Hi, I’m Sahra’s sister, Hodan.” Introductions are made all around, and Sahra shuffles over to give her sister enough room to sit down next to her in the booth.

“You okay?” Hodan asks in a low murmur as everyone’s shuffling around to make room, and Sahra just nods. 

The night stretches on, with the boys getting looser and drunker, and Hodan keeping Sahra company, gamely listening to the stories and jokes everyone tells, the never-ending list of properties Peter either damaged or outright destroyed, even if they all skirt around the magic part so that Hodan isn’t tipped off.

“Y’know, when you think about it,” Jaget says, hiccupping a little, “It only makes sense that this is how Peter would go out. Suppose we’re lucky that final showdown wasn’t in Whitehall. Or Buckingham Palace.”

“He had a gift for destruction,” Sahra agrees. 

“That he did,” Dominic agrees, and starts to smile. “But you have to admit, working a case with him was never boring, was it?”

“No,” Sahra says, and if her smile wavers a little, nearly everyone there is too drunk to notice, or care. “No, he was never boring.”

As Jaget starts making noises about ordering yet _another_ round, Hodan takes advantage of the general noise to lean in and whisper quietly, “You sure you’re all right?”

“Mostly,” Sahra says with a shrug. 

Hodan rubs her arm comfortingly. “I’m really sorry about your friend,” she says in a soft whisper. “He sounds like he was pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Sahra says, and her voice catches a little, right at the end. “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

*

That night, Sahra dreams of standing by a chestnut tree in the nighttime fog, the grass springy beneath her feet. The fog is so thick she can barely see a few feet in front of her, but she can hear rushing water nearby. 

“There you are!” she hears a male voice call out from behind her. “I was afraid this wouldn’t work, but you made it in after all.”

Sahra whirls around, and sees a mostly naked white man, his black hair spiky and tangled, a loincloth tied around his waist. His skin is smeared in blue paint--woad, a corner of Sahra’s mind recognizes, and there’s gold bracelets around his wrists, and a necklace of gold gleaming at his throat. “Well, to be more accurate,” he says next, shrugging, “I made it into your head, but that’s all right.”

Despite his bizarre attire--or lack of it--when he smiles at her, Sahra smiles back, reassured. “Hello,” she says. 

“Hello, Sahra,” the man says, and steps closer, his teeth flashing white in his stained face. “Do you like my tree?”

Sahra looks up at the giant chestnut tree, hearing the leaves rustle in the night wind. “Yeah, I do,” she says, thoughtfully, reaching out to touch the rough bark of its trunk. “I’ve seen this before,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing along the grooves of the wood. “Where have I seen this before?”

“Don’t worry,” the man tells her. “It’ll come to you eventually.”

Her train of thought lost, Sahra turns back to ask him, “Why am I here?”

“Ah,” the man says, and steps a little closer. Not close enough to be threatening, although she has the vague feeling that she _should_ feel threatened, or at least not as trusting as she feels right now. “That is a very good question, Sahra, with a very complicated answer. And I can’t answer most of it, anyway. Sorry.”

“Is there anything you can answer?” Sahra asks, finding herself amused instead of annoyed, and the man just beams at her. 

“I can, actually,” he says, grinning. “You see, the thing is--”

Just then, a faint snatch of music reaches Sahra’s ears, and she goes still. “Is that...is that Billie Holliday?” she asks, somehow surprised to hear Billie Holliday here in this place. 

Wherever this place is. 

“Yeah, it is,” the man confirms. “Our mutual friend has a lot of music stored away in his head, which is great for me. I’m always ready for a song.”

“Our mutual friend,” Sahra repeats, slowly.

“Yeah, that’s what I brought you here for,” the man tells her, and his smile gentles. “I would’ve sent word sooner, but it’s taken me this long to get him loose, and then I had to figure out how to get through to you from this side. Tried to reach the Nightingale and Beverley Brook first, but no luck there.”

Sahra’s gone very still, her heart beating a little faster in her chest. “Get him loose? Do you mean…”

“Don’t worry,” the man tells her, the smell of meadowgrass thick in the air, mingling with the music that Sahra can hear, clear as a bell. “He’s got a job to do here first, but you’ll have your hunting partner back soon enough.”

He holds out a hand, his smile turning hopeful. “Trust me?”

Sahra slowly reaches out and clasps his hand in hers, feeling the strength in his grip. “All right,” she breathes out, hope and excitement rising up inside of her. “All right, I trust--”

But the fog rolls in, and the man might say something else, but Sahra can’t hear him or the music anymore. She tries to hold onto his hand, but he slips away, disappearing into the mist, and the dream disappears with him.

*

In the morning, Sahra doesn’t remember what she dreamed about.


End file.
